


How'd You Like Them Apples

by ayatsujik



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayatsujik/pseuds/ayatsujik
Summary: Yuri visits Otabek on a summer mission in Almaty. Obviously, he snaps first. Introspection + UST --->> fluff. Sexy times implied. Isn't it sexy when your s.o. speaks languages you don't?





	How'd You Like Them Apples

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Do we need yet ANOTHER how-would-Otayuri-get-together-in-Almaty fic that exists mostly to externalise squee? Stuffed with bad big cat metaphors, YOI cliches like height comparisons and social media exchanges, etc.? Why, gentle reader, do you even ask? (p.s. if your answer is "no", this isn't for you.) However, if you might enjoy a fic that attempts to explore some issues involved with cross-cultural dating, and/or the awkward cute of adolescents figuring out Rabu, welcome. 
> 
> 2\. I imagined a lot of Otabek in this piece along the advice given by Aik Sawyer, the author of ["Kazakhstan 101 or How to Otabek"](http://starkysnarks.tumblr.com/post/154282821426/kazakhstan-101-or-how-to-otabek). In this setting Otabek is 19 going on 20; Yuri is 17 (1.5 years from the Barcelona GPF). Kazakhstan, like other former Soviet republics, has a drinking age of 21. 
> 
> 3\. This is no exception to the apparent trend of sourcing all knowledge of Almaty (Kazakhstan's "apple city"...how lovely), as well as the Russian and Kazakh languages, from a combination of blogs, travel sites, YouTube videos and the occasional guidebook (i.e. furious Googling) to fic. If you are from there, or have lived there, and/or are a Russian/Kazakh speaker, some things may strike you as ridiculous. Please tell me if so! Advance apologies for anything super off. I'm not well-read on Soviet history, either (not that there's much of it in here), but I like thinking about the ways in which Beka and Yura's lives and national histories intersect in the post-Soviet world.

 

The first summer he visits Otabek in Almaty, it's a year and a half since Barcelona. It's also a reverse Barcelona, in that it's now Otabek who needs to escape a shrieking swarm of female (and a distinct number of male) fans. They're discovered leaving the cafe where they had coffee after Otabek picked him up from the airport: a storm of phone camera flashes go off around them as they hightail it for Otabek's motorbike. Kazakh fans are tame compared to Yuri's international posse of cat-ear-wearing female demon stalkers, though. Yuri appreciates that no one tries to block, chase or pin them down. Even better, no one's recognised him under his sunglasses and tiger-print hoodie.

Otabek turns back and waves a hand as they zip away, drawing cheers, hoots and shouted comments in Kazakh. Otabek's mouth twitches. Yuri notices, and files an interrogation to come.

The highway road noise defies conversation, but it becomes much quieter when they turn down a long street lined with office buildings, shuttered and dark on a Saturday evening. There's a park-like green space at the end of the street, with trees and stone benches and a small fountain, where Otabek stops his bike.

Yuri lets go of the leather-clad shoulders in front of him and hops off. He unfastens his helmet strap and shakes out his hair as he heads for one of the benches. Otabek comes to sit beside him, helmet tucked under his arm.

"That's nice of you, waving to those morons."

"My sponsors always want me to take photos," Otabek says. "That would be time-consuming and tiring, especially with a crowd. But I appreciate their support, and waving doesn't take much."

"Yeah, it's not like you live for screaming freaks slobbering over you." Yuri sniffs, arching his back in a long stretch. "Unlike that dumbass JJ, now."

"True." Otabek says, his mouth twitching again.

"What were those guys shouting at us just now, anyway?"

Otabek pauses. "I don't think you want to know."

Yuri glares daggers at him, sitting bolt upright. "What?? Of COURSE I want to know! What's so bad that you can't tell me?!"

"They thought you were a girl." Otabek remains expressionless, but his eyes glimmer with amusement. "So they were...making assumptions about why we were together and where we were going."

Yuri swears, loudly and vividly Russian.

"You have long hair, and you're all covered up," Otabek says, matter-of-factly. "It's good they didn't recognise you. Although they're probably going to make silly internet posts about it."

"Stupid fucks," Yuri mutters, kicking the grass. "Why would they think that? Don't you have a girlfriend? Girlfriends??"

Otabek looks at him intently. "Do *you* have girlfriends? Or do you want one? Many?"

"N-no," Yuri mumbles, taken aback by the sudden seriousness in Otabek's eyes. "No time." He pauses, feeling the weight of Otabek's gaze on him. "Never thought about it, really. One would be too much trouble, let alone more than one."

"Well, then." Otabek shifts, his hand bumping against Yuri's on the bench. "I'm the same."

They sit in silence. The fountain gurgles, the warm light of early evening filtering down through the leaves.

Yuri's dissatisfied. It's not a finished conversation, he knows: there's more that hasn't been said, and he isn't sure who's more at fault for that, Otabek or him. He hadn't meant to make that crack about girlfriends, which sounded uncomfortably like a line from the bad American soap operas he occasionally watches at Mila's behest.

Is Otabek...upset? He doesn't think so, but he isn't sure. Normally he'd make a fuss and attempt to drag everything out in the open, but this is Otabek. Otabek isn't like Katsudon, who's prone to getting unbearably Japanese (or possibly just Katsudon) over expressing things (and Yuri would know, having received more than one drunken whiny text or recorded missed call from Viktor about cultural barriers obstructing the Sharing of Feelings why Yurio why).

Otabek is taciturn, but unfailingly honest and direct. If he's not saying something, Yuri knows, it's because he's not ready to.

The unsaid thing lies between them, like a big cat crouched low in the grass. Biding its time.

Otabek clears his throat, and Yuri looks over at him.

"Thank you for coming all the way out here, Yura," he says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. It makes Yuri suddenly, unaccountably shy.

"It's only a 5 hour flight, I've done much worse," he says shortly. "...Thanks for inviting me, Beka."

Making Otabek smile, he thinks, is another thing he's gotten good at.

  
**

It's the first summer vacation Yuri's taken in years - a whole weekend off, as a reward for a string of victories the past season, and one he didn't actually expect his coaches to agree to. Viktor didn't even know about this, since he flew off to Japan (again) days before Yuri left. It's certainly the only one he's coordinated with another person. Yuri's never been out of Russia except for competitions, and the time he spent training in Hasetsu with Viktor and the pig.

It's his first time in Kazakhstan. It's his first time staying over with a friend, for that matter. He's never had the time or the social network to do so. He knows Viktor and Mila wouldn't mind if he crashed their places. Being invited to come and stay is different. The closest he's known is Katsudon's mother telling him their inn's always open to him. Even that, though, isn't the same as what he's about to do.

He's read and reread the string of WhatsApp messages between him and Otabek planning the trip, the first one from Otabek asking / _If you have some free time this month, do you want to visit Almaty_?/

/ _Yes_ /, he sent back instantly.

He'll make it work. They haven't seen each other for months now. He'll pull a Viktor if he has to, jetting off and coming back to face the wrath of middle-aged Russian coaches - who, as it turns out, agree he's earned a break.

Don't overeat, Yakov says, predictably, the day before he leaves. Do your stretches every day. Come back ready to focus.

How beautiful to have a friend, Lilia adds, surprisingly. Yuri thought she would echo her ex-husband, who she remained annoyingly in sync with where his training was concerned.

A friend, says Lilia, is one who welcomes you into their world. What a precious thing.

Yuri would have choice words for anyone else who said mushy crap like that, but coming from Lilia, he's strangely moved (apart from not having a death wish). He wonders how that definition of "friend" works in her life, especially watching Yakov and her now. Neither of his skating parents ever talks about their past marriage, even after several rounds of vodka. But there was an evening when Yakov - in Lilia's absence, and in a rare moment of liquor-induced contemplative mellowness - let slip that they were better friends than ever before. And even if Yuri isn't sure what Lilia currently thinks of Yakov, he knows she has no time for people she doesn't care about.

He's glad Lilia approves.

On the flight over he reviews texts from Otabek. Flips through old photos of post-competition meals. Headphone-blasts the punk rock Mila sent him for a birthday present. Tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.

  
**

Kazakhstan is alien yet strangely familiar. Trilingual signs where he can read two of the languages and the script of the third. Architectural styles that remind him of buildings in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. He hears Russian words and the occasional English, which he understands, mingled with Kazakh, which he does not.

The Soviet Union's always been a history lesson to him. He knows Russia was once an empire; that it donned a new mantle of power after it lost the trappings of monarchy, cloaking territories under that dominion; that it endured a new kind of dissolution. It's the first time he's seeing the evidence of those things, the myriad traces of history etched into columns and arches and writing systems. How people whose language he can't understand can understand his. It makes him feel...complicated. Like there are answers to questions he doesn't have yet. Questions he doesn't know how to ask. 

But in any case, a city with a snow leopard on its coat of arms is a brilliant place, in Yuri's book. At the Almaty airport, waiting for Otabek to pick him up, he snaps a selfie of himself beside it, with the caption _guess where?_. It gets an instant flood of Instagram likes, with assorted comments along the lines of "wow where is this???" from certain other skaters in Thailand and Japan. There's one from Mila wishing him a happy vacation ("and say hi to O for me!! xo ;) ;) ;)" ). In Russian, but determined fans (and the aforementioned Thai skater) would simply feed that into Google Translate and figure out who "O" was, doubtless. Damn hag. He doesn't even want to see what Viktor and the pig are going to say.

Then there's Otabek on his home turf. Speaking Kazakh, his warm, deep voice issuing sounds that string together a melody of their own. Yuri drinks it in, despite not understanding a thing. It isn't fair, he thinks, that Otabek gets to be cool like that. He doesn't even know he's cool, the jerk.

It's a side of Otabek he's never seen in their skating circles, where shared languages dominate. English, mostly; Russian and French, with the relevant speakers. And Otabek speaks perfect Russian, with just the slightest accent. He always uses that with Yuri, and when coaxed into hanging out with Yakov's stable of charges. Come to think of it, Otabek speaks better English than Yuri, in fact - he's more comfortable with contemporary slang, and has a bigger vocabulary, which occasionally necessitates his translating JJ's cheerfully drunken bullshit for Yuri's outrage.

Russia, America, Canada: Yuri can't imagine training in so many different countries. Japan's the only other place he's ever gone to work on skating, and that was *entirely* Katsudon's fault, to say nothing of Viktor's. It fills him with a new respect for Otabek's career.

Yuri, sprawling on the couch, plays with these fresh thoughts while watching Otabek on the phone. Otabek leans against the wall, scratching his neck absently; moves to tidy up some mugs and magazines scattered on the coffee table. The call's lasted for ten minutes so far and shows no signs of abating. It's with someone familiar, judging by the tone of his voice: relaxed, warm, occasionally veering into annoyance. A far larger amount of words is coming out of his mouth relative to his usual self. He's removed his dark brown leather jacket, revealing the plain khaki t-shirt underneath. It fits the toned contours of his torso and upper arms perfectly, tapering down into the belt of his navy chinos.

Yuri unabashedly conducts a visual appraisal, mentally comparing their workout routines. Otabek lifts weights regularly, he knows. Yuri's grown in the last year, but he won't get Otabek's physique without a *lot* of protein shakes and strength training.

Lifting weights is probably a condition for making such boring clothes look so good. 

Otabek shoots him an apologetic glance, switching the phone to his other ear. Yuri shakes his head, firing off a thumbs-up and flopping back on the couch. He closes his eyes, basking in the sounds of round, lilting Kazakh syllables punctuated by a smattering of Russian words and the occasional "OK".

What if *he* had grown up in Kazakhstan, Yuri wonders, with that language as his own? The climate isn't so different, although the horses and yurts and bright ethnic clothes pictured in his textbooks have nothing in common with anything he's seen in Almaty so far. He tries to remember if his grandfather visited Kazakhstan in his younger days, making a mental note to ask him for stories.

Otabek's got a big place for one person, with a spare bedroom and a balcony view of the city. Nowhere as fancy as Viktor's, but much plusher than the small apartment Yuri's renting in Saint Petersburg, where he moved to after leaving Lilia's home. One corner of the living room is a small DJ booth, with a laptop hooked up to a compact mix table, speakers, and a bunch of dial-studded equipment Yuri's got no clue about, everything sitting atop two cabinet racks of records. It all looks expensive and carefully kept. Otabek doesn't shop much, Yuri knows, but what he acquires he looks after.

"Sorry about that," Otabek says, slipping back into Russian. He pockets his phone and heads over to the couch. "Family."

"Something happened?" Yuri asks, making room for him to sit.

"No, they were just checking on me." Otabek smiles, ruefully. "All of them, including the grandparents."

"Aren't they here too?"

"Normally, yes. But they went to our dacha in the mountains for summer vacation last weekend. They won't be back until next week."

"Why didn't you go with them?"

"I was training until yesterday," Otabek says. "And now you're here."

"Didn't want to introduce me?" Yuri said, making a face at him.

"They invited us to join them, of course. But I wanted to hang out with you alone, Yura."

Something about the way Otabek says "alone", serious and sincere, makes the butterflies start up again.

"My mother and sister are big fans of yours," Otabek informs him, raising a brow. "I didn't think you'd want them screaming over you this first visit. They'd also have tried to plan everything for us."

"Thanks, I guess," Yuri mutters, looking away.

"They're pretty mad at me for inviting you to come when they're away, though. Will you come back again when they're here?"

_Come back again._

Such simple words, Yuri thinks, have no business making him so happy.

"I'll think about it," he says. "Convince me."

"How would I do that?"

"Feed me, for starters." Yuri nudges him, jerking his head over to the turntable corner. "And then mix me some music at this fancy joint you're running here."

"You're not going to make me sneak you into a club?"

Yuri snorts. "Why would I need your help for that?" He fishes in his hoodie pockets for an elastic band and tosses his hair back, jamming it into a ponytail. It's almost at his shoulders, and he's thinking of chopping it off - maybe a crop, although he suspects Lilia won't approve. "*You're* not even legal to drink HERE, Mr. Responsible Senior Guy!"

"You did your homework," Otabek laughs. "We can still go to a club if you want to, you know. My friends will help us get in, as long as we don't drink."

"That might be cool," Yuri says thoughtfully. "But I've seen you at clubs before, and I don't enjoy them all that much. Not as much as the Europeans do, anyway."

"You don't?"

"Yeah. Too many people. Sometimes they grab you or throw up on you. Some DJs are shitty, too."

"How am I, though?" Otabek asks, seriously.

"I *asked* you to play music, didn't I? Don't ask questions you already know the answers to, stupid." Yuri rolls his eyes, and Otabek looks pleased, almost embarrassed.

"Then we'll go to a good local place I know for dinner." Otabek says. "I'll mix something for you when we get back. And tomorrow morning, if you want, we can get into the rink I use before it opens, so we can skate without anyone else around. I've got a special arrangement with the management."

"Sounds great, Beka." Yuri jumps up in one fluid movement, stretching his arms like he's holding a ballet position. When he turns back to face Otabek, his friend's still sitting there, smiling. Watching him.

"Are you going to sit there all night or what?" he asks pointedly, holding his hand out. Otabek grips it, pulls himself to his feet. They're almost the same height now; there's a good chance he'll be taller than Otabek in a year or two. He wonders what that will feel like.

Otabek's hand is warm and dry and callused. Yuri knows that, of course. They've shaken hands a good number of times before. But it's one thing to know and another thing to understand, especially this close. When did he last stand this close to Otabek, near enough to smell the dim fragrance of aftershave and hair wax?

The butterflies are still there, fluttering furiously.

Otabek doesn't post selfies, preferring voice calls and texts to video calls. Otabek's eyes are brown like Katsudon's, but lighter and more tapered, framed by thick black lashes. So many things inaccessible from a phone screen; so many things he wants to know.

The thing from their time in the park is there again. Waiting to uncurl, its eyes glowing in the shadows.

"You're still holding my hand, Yura." A gentle declaration of fact. And he's *still* smiling, the ass.

Yuri glares at him and tries to pull away, but Otabek maintains his grip. "Let's go," he says, dragging Yuri to the door.

  
**

Dinner that night is at an Uzbek place a short ride from Otabek's apartment. He appears to be on familiar terms with its middle-aged proprietors, exchanging a hearty handshake with both husband and wife, who bestow greetings on Yuri in accented Russian. There's only a couple of other customers in the restaurant, but they're ushered into a tapchan arbour, where they're seated on brightly coloured throw pillows at a low table.

Otabek says a few words of something to the woman, who laughs and disappears. She eventually returns, laden with dishes of plov and manti and a couple of other things Yuri can't name, along with a big pot of tea. He's had Uzbek food in Russia before, but not this good, bursting with flavour, fresh spices and juicy meat. 

"Do you come here often, Beka?" he asks, in between alternating bites of pilaf with squash-and-meat stuffed dumplings.

"Not that often, but I've known the couple who runs it for a long time." Otabek says, drinking his tea. "They're friends of my maternal grandparents."

"That's cool."

"Yeah, they also let me practice speaking Uzbek with them."

"Really?!" Yuri pauses mid-bite, eyes wide. "I didn't know you spoke Uzbek!"

"My mother's family is Uzbek," Otabek explains, smiling slightly. "That's where my first name comes from."

"What's it mean, then?"

"'Senior one', more or less," Otabek says. "It's a common name for first sons."

"It really suits you, old man," Yuri smirks, and hastily adds, when Otabek looks put out, "No! It's fine...you're still younger than Viktor and the pig, anyway!"

Otabek shakes his head. "I've heard that Viktor Nikiforov calls you a kitten -"

"WHO TOLD YOU THAT?!?! THEY'RE SO DEAD!!"

"- and you definitely have claws, Yura." Otabek pushes the last of the plov over to a spluttering Yuri. "Eat up."

  
**

Otabek parks his motorbike and they take a post-prandial walk through the city. The urban landscape illuminates the night with varieties of neon-lit buildings, including an inexplicable miniature replica of the Eiffel Tower planted before a row of department stores.

Yuri drags Otabek into several of them, and proceeds to acquire an assortment of things in perfect accord with his existing inclinations, including a black cap emblazoned with a snow leopard, a lynx-print tank top and a postcard set of Kazakhstan's Big Cats. He's the blondest, sleekest person in every place, and people turn to look at him as he bounces from floor to floor, asking for opinions he's not really listening to, and giving Otabek bags to hold when he's trying on clothes.

Yuri's always happy when he shops. Otabek's happy when Yuri's happy. Happy that Yuri's spending some of the money he earns on himself - by now a not inconsiderable sum, Otabek's aware, given the number of sponsors wooing him to be Russia's biggest promoter of feline-print products - sneakers, bags, energy drinks with tiger logos (although he knows Yuri's careful to refuse products made from actual animals). Yuri's complained about Yakov Feltsman putting a hard limit to the number of photo shoots and commercials he's allowed to do.

Otabek's happy to know all this. Happy to tag along as a witness to questionable fashion choices and purchases that could never be called necessary. The admiring, amused looks of surrounding shopgirls. Happy just to watch Yuri move, his limbs imbued with the unconscious grace earned by a lifetime of ballet.

Otabek remembers the summer he gave up ballet: a camp in Saint Petersburg, where he watched Russian teens several grades younger than him float and pose and twirl in their soft shoes. Exquisitely, effortlessly light. He felt like a lump of muddy rock, next to them. Especially next to the small golden one called Yuri Plisetsky. Who, at all of 10 years old, scowled death at the barre between perfectly executed positions. Like it was something to defeat, or to break.

His 13-year old self had thought, _I can't win_. Followed by, _Not unless I do something different_. Stop trying to imitate fairies. Start finding things that ground you where you already are. A process which, in his case, ended up involving five years' and three countries' worth of training under different coaches. Teaching his body different kinds of movements and rhythms; sampling music and dance traditions outside classical ballet, including a stint with Kazakh folk dance instructors back in Almaty.

It was all worth it, though. Here he is, with a growing collection of medals and a top international ranking.

Here he is now, holding Yuri Plisetsky's bags. Yuri Plisetsky, the reigning men's short program world record holder. The same Yuri Plisetsky, currently grinning at himself in a mirror. Trying on some monstrosity of a chain-link necklace with studs and a horse pendant.

It makes Otabek want to grin, too.

He'd thought about planning something more elaborate for Yuri's visit, but finally decided that free and easy would be best. They didn't need to do anything complicated, really; he knew they both liked simple activities. Talking. Going out. Listening to music. Although it presently occurs to him, watching Yuri accumulate things with large cats with on them, that he should definitely think about planning a future alpine wildlife viewing excursion.

He'd asked Yuri, / _Is there anything you'd like to do while you're here?_ /

The reply was swift and unexpected: / _I just want to see you. It's been forever_ /

No ironic cover-ups, cat photos, animated memes or blustery deflections followed it.

Otabek's lost count of the number of times he's re-read that message, along with other equally unadorned ones, wondering how far to trust his sense of what their sender was really saying. It's easy to read things into text messages, after all, especially things one wants to see.

/ _Me too_ /, he sent back.

He's never asked anyone to visit him before, and he wasn't sure if Yuri would say yes. But Otabek believes in tactics. In choosing risks. He knows Yuri does too. And that, he believes, is why Yuri is here, now. In Almaty. With him.

He's not entirely sure what he should do, or how he should go about doing it. Maybe he'll mess everything up. And yet, somehow, he isn't terribly worried about it.

He'll ask, and Yuri will answer.

In any case, they'll both find out, and Yuri will stay Yuri to Otabek, whatever he decides. 

It's been a whole day, but he still can't quite believe that Yuri's here, on his turf. An answer to an ask. He wonders: is that really Yuri Plisetsky walking over, blue-green eyes shining, hair pulled back into a tail of pale gold? Waving yet another shopping bag and grinning like the cat that ate the canary? Or is it just another tiger-print hoodie-wearing person who just happens to look *exactly* like him?

"What are you staring at? Snap out of it, Beka. Oh, and I'm done." Yuri winks at him, and pops the snow leopard cap on his head, cocking it at a rakish angle. A selfie promptly follows.

"It suits you," Otabek says. He isn't lying. He's always thought Yuri's ability to look attractive in ridiculous clothes a kind of magic.

"Of course it does," Yuri sniffs, adjusting the cap over his ponytail. "Let's go back. I'm getting tired."

  
**

While Yuri's taking a shower, Otabek fires up his music station, creating a playlist mixed with elements of rock, trip-hop and electronica. He chooses a chiller tempo for a relaxing ambience, but one that retains a good amount of groove.

He isn't surprised Yuri asked for a set. He expected that, frankly, and he's only too happy to oblige. DJ music, after all, sparked their current connection. Otabek won't ever forget the night of his conscription as handmaid to a mad fairy, whose eros unfurled as a strip-skate to the wailing of electric guitar runs and rock falsetto. Leaping about and arching on the ice, skin glowing white under the spotlights. To *his* choice of song. Now and then he catches himself thinking about the taste of cool fingers and studded leather in his mouth; he still has visions of Yuri's eyes smouldering at him out from swathes of black eyeliner.

Mad, fey Plisetsky. Beautifully insane. Insanely beautiful.

It's a practically a rock ballet, Beka, his sister had laughed. Like, a remix of Sleeping Beauty? Where the evil fairy is actually a siren who falls for the prince? You two should think about making it a full program.

(He hasn't told anyone the origins of the Madness skate, and he knows how hard she'll tease if she ever finds out he's using his mix table to seduce Yuri Plisetsky.)

He comes out of his shower to find Yuri sprawled on the couch in a faded red T-shirt and black shorts. His eyes are closed, his hair fanned out over the arm of the sofa. He's moving his head in time to the beat of the current song spinning.

Otabek taps him on the shoulder and his eyes fly open as he scrambles upright, looking embarrassed.

"Glad you like it," Otabek says, satisfied, settling beside him.

"You've got good taste, Beka," Yuri says, taking a long, languid stretch. His red T-shirt rides up, exposing a strip of white belly. It reminds Otabek of the Madness skate again. He resists the urge to reach over and stroke it.

"I think so, too," Otabek replies, not taking his eyes off Yuri. He inches closer so their hands brush. Yuri doesn't move away.

Yuri holds his gaze, cheeks turning pink, and takes a deep breath.

"Beka," he says, sounding almost exasperated. "Look...we need to talk."

"We do, Yura."

They stare at each other mutely, instrumental bass beats pulsing in the background.

Otabek wonders what to do next. He's dated before: a couple of sweet girls who were skating fans, who had no chance of competing with skating for his time. Yuri is a different beast.

And, if he's totally honest with himself, he's suddenly, shamefully, afraid. The words he wanted to say are lodged in his throat. Yuri's eyes are like turquoise steel despite the blush: he's beautiful and vulnerable and poised, all at once. A cornered cat with claws, glaring at Otabek in a way reminiscent of how its 10-year old self glared at the barre. _Soldier_.

You'll always fight, Otabek thinks, because you can't do it any other way.

A blonde lock of still-damp hair slides forward, covering part of Yuri's face. Otabek instinctively reaches out to brush it back.

And, yet again, Yuri Plisetsky takes him by surprise.

  
**

Yuri knows his best decisions are spur-of-the-moment. Chasing Viktor to Japan. Clothes purchases. Stalking excursions. Roping in the best friend for smoking hot performances on the skating rink. It's all about broadcasting intentions and seizing control.

Right now, his intentions are that he should obliterate all ambiguity between himself and said best friend. It's lasted too long, this haze. It was fun for a while, but now it's just a nuisance. Fuck these butterflies, and fuck Otabek too, actually, who's clearly going to sit there and gawp and take his own sweet time about *everything*, ignoring the fact that Yuri's going to explode, *and*, incidentally, leave in less than 48 hours.

The thing between them is unfolding, getting ready to strike.

He's fed up with waiting and with ambiguity. In any case, he's now sure there isn't much of the latter thing in the way Otabek's looking at him, or the way his fingers are brushing back Yuri's hair.

So it makes perfect sense, then, that he should grab Otabek's tank top and yank him forward into a fierce kiss.

Otabek makes a strangled noise as their lips smash together, and Yuri relaxes his grip slightly. His nose aches; their lips aren't the only things that collided. It's not going quite as he's imagined. How did people go about this, really? Sorry, Beka. He's seen stupid romantic comedies, also by fiat of Mila - some with sex, some without, all involving perfect-looking kiss scenes. He's never had the chance to practice on someone else.

But Otabek's arms are around him, now, shifting their bodies so they fit closer together. He's tense - they both are - but gradually they relax into the kiss, letting instinct guide them. A large, warm hand slides through Yuri's hair to cradle his head, the other wrapping around his waist. Yuri finally releases Otabek's shirt so he can touch more of him. Otabek's back is all muscle; his arms, similarly firm, are covered in smooth, soft skin. He smells like a mixture of citrus and pine.

It's very, very nice. Nicer even than how he dreamed it.

Otabek breaks away first, gasping. He looks dazed, his dark eyes unfocused. Yuri feels a wave of triumph: another perfect landing.

"...Yura?" It comes out as a question.

"Guess we've settled this," Yuri says smugly. Otabek blinks and scowls at him, although he keeps his hands on Yuri's hips.

"You never give me time to think things over."

"I gave you so much time to think things over."

"I was going to *ask* you, Yura."

"Ask me *what*?!"

"Well...whether I could or couldn't kiss you."

"SHUT UP," Yuri moans, burying his head in Otabek's chest and flail-punching him. "For real?? You're an idiot, Beka. Thank me for saving you the trouble."

Otabek hugs him fiercely, tightening his grip so hard that Yuri yelps.

"I didn't want to pressure you into anything too soon, Yura," he says softly. "It's enough you're here. I wouldn't have minded if you'd said no."

"*I* bloody WOULD have minded!" Yuri half-snarls, pushing away from him slightly. "Who the hell says you get to decide? What do you mean, "enough"? What made you think I was going to say no to *you*? And what did you fucking *think* I came here for, anyway?!"

Otabek stares at him, momentarily frozen. And then he begins laughing, loud, clear chuckles that ring out over the background music.

"What's so funny?" Yuri asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

"You win, that's all." Otabek raises a brow at him.

Yuri smirks, throwing him a finger gun. In the next instant, though, he's on his back, pressed down into the couch by Otabek's broad torso. Being kissed in a way that makes him light-headed and tingly.

"But you're not going to win every time, Yura," Otabek breathes into his ear, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

"We'll see about that," Yuri murmurs. "I hope your bed's ready to be broken, Beka."

  
**

_/Thanks for everything, Beka. It was a great trip. I liked seeing your home rink, and your home town. Almaty rocks/_

_//I'm really happy to hear that, Yura. Let's go look for snow leopards next time//_

_/YES!!!! Can't wait!/_

_//Let me know when you get home//_

_/OK sure/_

_//I'm sorry if you're still sore, by the way//_

_/Fuck YOU/_

_//I'll work on my technique, I promise//_

_/You're going to regret this when we next meet/_

_//I never regret anything with you//_

_/Ugh stop you're gross/_

_//Come back again, Yura//_

_/I will/_

 

**Author's Note:**

> For a quasi-sequel to this piece, see [Quartet: Border Crossings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11869461).
> 
> Shoutout to [womanroaring](http://archiveofourown.org/users/womanroaring/pseuds/womanroaring) for writing the first fic I found that realised my dream of seeing Otabek and Yuri in Almaty, and whose fic, geniusly titled [DJ Altynyn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9909029/chapters/22205072), provided inspiration for some of the details here.


End file.
